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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828723">The Ghost You Know</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredred/pseuds/redredred'>redredred</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Flashbacks, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:13:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,740</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredred/pseuds/redredred</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon has returned to his office, finding the desk he knew he had left in disarray now organized in neat, tidy stacks of folders and paperwork.</p>
<p>On another day, after an impromptu nap at his desk, he’s woken with his coat draped around his shoulders—a coat he’s more than certain he left hanging on the back of his chair.</p>
<p>And—on more than one occasion, there’s been a cup of tea waiting for him in the morning, made just how he likes it.</p>
<p>They say there’s a ghost in the archives, but Jon knows better.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>193</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Ghost You Know</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based on <a href="https://roboomic.tumblr.com/post/187171611922/they-say-theres-a-ghost-in-the-archives">this wonderful comic</a> by roboomic!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They say there’s a ghost in the archives.<br/>
<br/>
Whispers of a rumor reach Jon’s ear—a mysterious figure, only seen out of the corner of your eye, that vanishes with a crackle of static. He’s heard it recalled with barely contained excitement, like a story being told around a campfire. <em> What if it’s Peter Lukas? </em> someone whispers, glancing around conspiratorially. <em> How many people have actually </em> seen <em> him anyway?<br/>
<br/>
</em>They’re almost on the mark, Jon thinks wryly.<br/>
<br/>
It would be disingenuous to say Jon has seen this so-called “ghost”—perhaps to even say he has evidence of its existence. It could be his own wishful thinking, looking for a connection when there is none. Even stress may be making his mind play tricks on him.<br/>
<br/>
But the evidence is difficult to deny.<br/>
<br/>
Jon has returned to his office, finding the desk he knew he had left in disarray now organized in neat, tidy stacks of folders and paperwork. <br/>
<br/>
On another day, after an impromptu nap at his desk, he’s woken with his coat draped around his shoulders—a coat he’s more than certain he left hanging on the back of his chair.<br/>
<br/>
And—on more than one occasion, there’s been a cup of tea waiting for him in the morning, made just how he likes it.<br/>
<br/>
They say there’s a ghost in the archives, but Jon knows better.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“A ghost? Really?”<br/>
<br/>
</em><em>“Shut up, Martin.”<br/>
<br/>
</em>The recollection draws a soft chuckle from Jon.<br/>
<br/>
He hasn’t actually <em> seen </em> Martin in—well over a week. (<em>Ten days, eleven hours, thirty eight minutes</em>, his mind helpfully supplies.) Maybe it <em> is </em> only wishful thinking—a string of coincidences he’s using to fill the void of Martin’s absence. Or a series of nonsensical, demented pranks—though that seems even more unlikely than an actual ghost. (There’s a pang in his chest as he thinks of the only person who would have gone through with such a prank.)<br/>
<br/>
Jon can’t deny the thought of it being Martin brings him some semblance of peace—of a return to how it used to be, before losing half a year of his life in dreams.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
“Good morning, Jon,” Martin greets brightly, carrying in his morning cup of tea. <br/>
<br/>
Jon glances upwards, only giving him a perfunctory nod. “Good morning, Martin.” Martin’s smile wavers only slightly as Jon takes the cup and returns his gaze to the file on his desk.<br/>
<br/>
After a handful of seconds, Martin is still standing in front of his desk. Jon frowns and looks up with narrowed eyes. “Is there something you needed?” He can’t help the sharp tone that enters his voice. (He could, actually, but doesn’t much care to.)<br/>
<br/>
“Ah—no, it’s just, um,” Martin stammers. Jon bites back a sigh, and it must show in his expression, because Martin’s brows furrow. “I tried out a new blend and I—I hope you like it?”<br/>
<br/>
Jon raises a brow, then takes another sip of tea. Though it’s subtle, now that he’s paying attention, he can taste the difference. “Hmm,” he mutters. “It’s satisfactory.”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” Martin says, smiling weakly. “Well. Good!” He walks backwards to the door. “I’ll, er, let you work, then.”<br/>
<br/>
“Right.” Jon returns to his paperwork, sipping gingerly at his tea.<br/>
<br/>
He was loath to admit it, but it is quite good.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Maybe he isn’t </em> completely <em> useless</em>.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
A knock on the door frame nearly startles Jon from his chair.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh—er, sorry,” Martin says. In one hand, he’s carrying a cup of tea, while the other holds a brown paper bag. A deep frown is set in his brows.<br/>
<br/>
Jon waves him off with a shaking hand. “It’s—it’s fine.” His skin prickles where he can tell Martin is staring—the scars from the worms have only barely started to fade.<br/>
<br/>
Martin carefully sets the cup down on Jon’s desk. Jon glances at it, but doesn’t pick it up. Instead, he looks up at Martin, who meets his gaze. Martin’s lips are twisted in worry.<br/>
<br/>
“I know you said you were fine to come back, but if you ask me, I still think you should take another couple weeks off.” He gives Jon a pointed look. “It’s bad enough you tried to come back earlier.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon averts his gaze, picking up the cup of tea. He takes a short sip. The warmth of it is soothing, and he lets his eyes slip shut for a second as he savors the sensation. “And I suppose you were right to send me back home then. But I was on the verge of going stir crazy, being cooped up in my flat all day. I just—” He sighs. “I <em> need </em> to get back to work.”<br/>
<br/>
Martin’s expression softens. “I know how dedicated you are to your work, Jon. But you should take more care of yourself, too.”<br/>
<br/>
“This <em> is </em> taking care of myself.” Jon can’t help the desperation that creeps into his voice.<br/>
<br/>
Martin’s raised brow speaks to how unconvinced he is. “You’re shaking like a leaf and nearly jumped out of your skin.”<br/>
<br/>
“And it’ll be worse if I don’t have anything to occupy myself with.” His voice rises, turning shrill. “If I don’t <em> know </em>—”<br/>
<br/>
“Alright,” Martin says, holding up his hands placatingly. “Right. Sorry. Believe it or not, I didn’t come to argue with you.”<br/>
<br/>
Martin unfolds the bag and reaches in, gingerly pulling out a black ceramic jar.<br/>
<br/>
“This, er, might sound weird.” He sets what looks to be an urn on Jon’s desk. Jon glances at it, then looks up at Martin, a brow raised in question.<br/>
<br/>
“These are Jane Prentiss’s ashes.”<br/>
<br/>
A jolt shoots down Jon’s spine. He inhales sharply, his lips parting. Reaching out for the urn, he grasps it tightly in his hands. Slowly, carefully, he runs his fingers over the ceramic.<br/>
<br/>
Martin shifts awkwardly on his feet. “It’s hermetically sealed, so you don’t have to worry about any—contamination or anything.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon blinks, looking up at Martin with wide eyes. “Jane Prentiss’s ashes are in here.”<br/>
<br/>
Martin nods. “It took some persuading from one of the BPCA guys, but I managed to convince him to give them to me. I thought it might, you know—help?” He chuckles weakly. “Honestly, it makes me feel better, too. Knowing all that’s left of her is—” He nods to the urn. “In there.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon turns the urn over in his hands. He’s more than a little skeptical that Martin was actually able to acquire such a thing—and logically, he’s certain he’s only holding a fancy jar of dirt, but—<br/>
<br/>
<em>But—<br/>
<br/>
</em>He balances it in one hand, feeling the weight of it. The dread that had been settled in Jon’s gut for the past month uncoils, ever so slightly. He stares at the urn, unblinking, until Martin clears his throat.<br/>
<br/>
“So, um, how do you—like it, I suppose?” His hands are clasped in front of him, and the faintest hint of red tinges his cheeks.<br/>
<br/>
Jon cranes his neck up, his mouth still slack. “I—” He swallows hard, setting the urn down on the desk—though his grip doesn’t loosen. His fingers tremble where they’re curled around it. “Thank you.”<br/>
<br/>
Martin huffs out a relieved sigh, his lips quirking up in a small smile. “I’m glad I could help.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon manages a weak smile of his own.<br/>
<br/>
“Believe me, you did.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
Martin accompanies Jon as he makes his way back to his office. They walk in silence, though the glances Martin sends his way speak volumes. When they arrive, Jon finds it in much the same state as he left it, as though it was just waiting for his return. <br/>
<br/>
“I’ll go make some tea,” Martin says quietly. “As a—proper welcome back.”<br/>
<br/>
When Martin returns, Jon is hunched over his desk, slowly shuffling through the piles of folders. He looks up at Martin with a strained smile, one hand rubbing at his throat, the hastily-applied bandage already coming loose. Martin glances down and his lips press into a thin line. He sets the tea down on Jon’s desk.<br/>
<br/>
“Are you alright?”<br/>
<br/>
Jon sighs, picking up the cup. “Well, I’m no longer a fugitive, at least,” he mutters, dropping his gaze as he takes a sip. The familiar taste drains some of the tension from his shoulders. <br/>
<br/>
Martin lets out a shaky breath. “God, Jon, I—I can’t even imagine what you’ve been going through. I knew you would <em> never </em> —but Elias? And— <em> Sasha </em>.” His voice catches in his throat.<br/>
<br/>
Jon rubs at his temple. “Yes, it’s—quite a lot to take in.” <br/>
<br/>
“And—and your hand—”<br/>
<br/>
Jon glances at his scarred hand that’s resting on the table. He turns it over, then balls it into a fist. “Payment,” he says with a hollow laugh. “For information.”<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Christ</em>, Jon.” Martin shakes his head. He meets Jon’s gaze, and there’s anger simmering in Martin’s eyes. “That detective, Tonner—she said she—she did that? To your neck?” His fists are clenched at his sides. “What the hell happened?”<br/>
<br/>
Martin looks about ready to march out and—Jon can’t even imagine what he would try to do. Without thinking, he reaches out and grabs onto Martin’s wrist. Their expressions are mirrored in surprise.<br/>
<br/>
“I—sorry—” Jon stammers, jerking his hand back.<br/>
<br/>
Martin shakes his head, his eyes not leaving Jon’s. “N—no, it’s alright—“<br/>
<br/>
“It’s just—you looked about ready to kill—“<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, well, maybe she needs to face some consequences—”<br/>
<br/>
“Martin, she’s <em> dangerous</em>—”<br/>
<br/>
“I <em> know </em> that, Jon. I was just thinking, at least a police brutality lawsuit or something like—”<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Martin</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Martin’s mouth snaps shut. Eyes wide, he looks at Jon.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s—it’s fine. I mean, it <em> wasn’t </em> fine. She thought I killed Leitner and Gertrude, and—and she shot Mike Crew and then almost killed me, and it was <em> terrifying</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon’s heart pounds hard against his rib cage. He takes in shallow breaths, his knuckles turning white where they’re clenched on the desk. <br/>
<br/>
“But now—everything is settled. It’s fine. It’s <em> going to be </em> fine.” His chest heaves as he attempts to calm his breathing.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m—I’m so, sorry, Jon.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s <em> fine</em>.” It comes out harsher than he intends and he clears his throat. His gaze travels to Martin’s face, the timbre of his voice softening. “Really. I—I do appreciate the concern.”<br/>
<br/>
Martin’s lips pull into tight smile. “Right.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon huffs out a long sigh, running a hand over his face. Gingerly, he picks up the now cooling cup of tea and takes a slow sip. “I did quite miss your tea,” he says with a wry smile.<br/>
<br/>
Martin blinks, his lips parting. “I—oh.” He chuckles sheepishly and his gaze darts from Jon’s face. “W—well, you know—I need to be good at something, right?”<br/>
<br/>
“Martin…” Jon’s brows pull together as a pang of guilt shoots through his chest. “God, I was an ass, wasn’t I?”<br/>
<br/>
Martin tilts his head, his smile turning lopsided. “A bit, yeah.”<br/>
<br/>
Heat creeps up Jon’s neck and he nods. “Yes. Well. I won’t ask you to accompany this <em> ass </em>more than necessary.”<br/>
<br/>
“I—don’t mind,” Martin says in a soft voice. “I’d <em> like </em> to stay. If—if that’s alright.”<br/>
<br/>
“Y—yes, of course,” Jon says quickly, nodding.<br/>
<br/>
The smile that Martin gives him makes something flutter in his chest.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
Jon tugs a hand through his hair and slumps backwards. <em> Wishful thinking, indeed. </em> <br/>
<br/>
Doubting his own judgement, Jon makes the decision to consult a more neutral party.<br/>
<br/>
“A bit unusual, isn’t it?” Daisy asks, brow raised. “You actually asking for advice.”<br/>
<br/>
“I am admittedly a bit desperate,” Jon grumbles.<br/>
<br/>
Daisy studies Jon intently as he relays his theory to her. She leans back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest as she mulls over his words.<br/>
<br/>
“Why don’t you just ask him?” <br/>
<br/>
Jon pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. A sharp sigh escapes his mouth. “Because every time I go to see him, he finds some excuse to not be there.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Even when we see each other, he barely even looks at me.”<br/>
<br/>
“But you’re sure it is him.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon nods. “Yes. I am.”<br/>
<br/>
She hums. “For what it’s worth, I agree. I don’t know him nearly as well as you do, but that seems most likely.”<br/>
<br/>
His frown only deepens.<br/>
<br/>
“But—knowing that doesn’t make you happy.” She quirks her head. “Why?”<br/>
<br/>
He throws his hands up. “It just—it doesn’t make <em> sense </em>. If he’s so hell-bent on going through with this thing for Lukas, then surely he would just ignore me entirely.”<br/>
<br/>
She scoffs. “You two are perfect for each other, you know that?”<br/>
<br/>
That makes his gaze snap up. He narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”<br/>
<br/>
Instead of answering, she grins lopsidedly. “You miss him.”<br/>
<br/>
He sputters. “Of course I do.”<br/>
<br/>
Daisy’s grin slips into a sad smile. “Those months spent in the coffin, I—never thought I’d get out. I never thought I’d see Basira again.” She grips her arms tight around her. ”And she thought I was dead for half a year. It’s the same with you and Martin, isn’t it? It’s only because you’re—you know.” She gestures vaguely. “That you even survived.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon nods slowly. “I—yes.”<br/>
<br/>
“And whatever reason it was that made him take a deal with Lukas, it’s not like he has much of a choice now, does he?” Daisy laughs hollowly. “Just like I was doing Bouchard’s dirty work to protect Basira.” She runs a hand through her short-cropped hair. “If I had to guess—I’d say he misses you, too.<br/>
<br/>
“I...can’t say I know, exactly, how it is between you two. But when I—interrogated him, about Leitner’s murder, his biggest concern was trying to protect you.”<br/>
<br/>
Jon releases a shaky breath, his gut twisting into knots.<br/>
<br/>
Daisy’s expression softens. “And I don’t think he’d let go of that so easily.” <br/>
<br/>
He swallows hard past the lump in his throat. “No,” he whispers. “He wouldn’t, would he?”<br/>
<br/>
“So this might be his way of keeping a connection to you. I’d take the gestures for what they are, unless you’re interested in trying to force an answer from him.” She raises a hand before he can protest. “And I think both of us know you don’t want to do that.”<br/>
<br/>
“Right,” he whispers, nodding once. “Yes, you—you’re right. Thank you, Daisy.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not sure how much help that actually was, but, well,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck.<br/>
<br/>
He gives her a small smile. “It was plenty.”<br/>
<br/>
So Jon takes to leaving the door to his office open—an unspoken invitation. The visits are infrequent, unpredictable, but Jon finds himself looking forward to them—a source of brightness in the ever growing gloom of the institute.<br/>
<br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
Jon groans and rests his forehead in his hands. His so-called diet of old, stale statements has his head leaden and sluggish, and hunger gnaws deep in his belly. He grimaces and pulls open a new folder, hoping this statement will go some way in alleviating his appetite.<br/>
<br/>
A prickling rises up his spine and his shoulders tense. He holds his breath as the ghost of an arm settles on his upper back. There’s a soft clinking sound on his desk, then it recedes as quickly and quietly as it came. He jerks his head up, craning his neck to look behind him. The office is seemingly empty—except for a nearly imperceptible sheen of fog hanging in the doorway. <br/>
<br/>
Jon blinks, but it doesn’t dissipate. A faintly sweet aroma wafts around him. He slowly turns back to his desk, and there sits a steaming cup of tea. He gingerly picks it up, cradling it in his hands, and makes out a scrawl of handwriting on the side.<br/>
<br/>
<em>“Don’t worry, be happy :)”<br/>
<br/>
</em>A huff of laughter escapes his lips. He brings the cup to his mouth, slipping his eyes closed as he takes a sip. The warmth of it spreads through his chest and he hums contentedly.<br/>
<br/>
Jon turns back to the doorway, catching sight of the fog that still hangs in the air. He smiles softly, and for a second, he sees the shadow of dark brown eyes looking back at him.<br/>
<br/>
“Thank you,” Jon whispers.<br/>
<br/>
There’s no answer, and the fog slips away, as though it had never been there. Jon sits back in his chair and watches the doorway until his cup is empty.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!! Next chapter is Martin POV. :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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